


a quieter siren for library fires

by nantes (titians)



Series: we are magic talking to itself; noisy and alone [2]
Category: Actor RPF, One Direction, Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titians/pseuds/nantes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wedding receptions are a great place to get together and reminisce about times gone by inside the walls of Hogwarts with your oldest friends. . . This lot just have to make it to the reception first.  (Don't let anybody fuck the stripper because real friends don't let friends get herpes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	a quieter siren for library fires

> _“I want to give a really_ bad _party. I mean it. I want to give a party where there’s a brawl and seductions and people going home with their feelings hurt and women passed out in the cabinet de toilette. You wait and see.”_   **F I T Z G E R A L D**
> 
> **( + 4 4 ) :** one of the mothers at the party said to me, "all your friends are getting married, you're just getting drunk."

 

 

"Not including the small blippy break up thing in the middle," Harry chimes in, Zayn shooting him a look out of the corner of his eyes but somehow managing to remain looking awfully fond, "it's been nine years, seven months and four days."

Nick places his mug back on the table and states, "It's weird you know the days."

"Is it?" Zayn and Harry chorus back at him.

Nick hopes he doesn't look too terrified. It _still_ freaks him out that they can do that. Is it weird that they can? Or maybe Nick's wrong and it's weird that he and RJ and Louis can't do that. He can hold his hands up and admit that he has been wrong before. But. No. That seems weird − even after nine years, seven months and whatever amount of days, Harry and Zayn should not be able to do that. Should they?

Zayn softens, acquiescing, "Ok, maybe it is a little."

"But we're getting married."

Harry beams as he says it. Fucking beams, his face split in two by the width of his grin and everything about him glowing with the feeling.

Nick smiles, his best friend's mood infectious, and nods. "Yeah," he says, "you are. In how long?"

He means it as a joke, Zayn catching his eye and understanding immediately. But Harry − excited, practically vibrating with the strain to keep all his excitement in − begins to answer:

"Nine days and fourteen hours."

Shaking his head, Nick gives up.

 

*

 

After Nick's gone, when it's just the two of them sitting on the couch, Harry reading through the page of the newspaper Zayn isn't scribbling the solution to the sudoku on, Harry inhales a deep breath and tells him, "I've invited Greg."

Zayn doesn't take the pen away from the page − "You're brave," Harry once told him, and Zayn had blinked at him twice, waiting for him continue. "Using a pen to do the sudoku." − but turns to face his fiancé.

"Alright."

Despite this, Harry continues to explain. "It's just- he's done so much for us. Sorting out decorations and little bits, like getting the cars and everything. And we used to be such good friends." He wets his lip with his tongue quickly. Zayn's eyes never leave him. "I know. I know Gemma's coming and she's your friend, I know that. But Greg's important. He's important and I've invited him."

He lets out a sigh once he's finished. A short thing made up of the tiny bit of breath he had left.

Once again, Zayn replies, "Alright."

"It's not going to be a mess," Harry assures him. "I mean. . . It's been six years since they broke up and Gemma isn't going to cause a fuss and Greg isn't like that but. I want them both to be there. I want Gemma to be there and I want Greg to be there and I want-"

He gets cut off with a sharp, "Harry," from Zayn but still, he doesn't sound annoyed. "I get it."

Something warm spreads inside Harry's chest at the three words.

"I get it."

Leaning into the flow where Zayn's neck becomes shoulder, Harry places a kiss on his collarbone and feels the next words Zayn says pulse under his lips. "If it's important to you, then that's ok."

They settle back down and Zayn puts an eight in the second box from the top, left column.

Into the quiet of the room, Harry says, "I always liked Greg."

Zayn hums his agreement.

 

*

 

Danny picks Gemma up at the airport as per Zayn's instructions. When he attempts to take her bag, Gemma shoves him away with a swift hip check and steps towards the arrivals' hall exit, her heels clicking quickly so Danny has to jog to catch up with her.

"Only one bag," he notes once they're in the lift together. "I thought you were moving home."

"My things are being moved for me − this is just for the wedding."

He could make another comment, mention something similar happening in Hogwarts when 16 year old Gemma somehow got a load of Hufflepuff fourth years to pack her trunks before they went home for the summer but. It doesn't feel like the right place. It's been three years since Danny last saw her and looking at her, her sunglasses blocking half her face and her hat wide brimmed and burgundy, Danny feels like no time has passed between the last time he saw her and now at all _and_ that he doesn't know the woman standing next to him.

She's taller than he remembers but he chalks that down to bad memory.

But everything else about her is the same. And completely different all at once. He supposes finding out you're going to become the new Minister of Magic does that to a person.

When the silence between them gets to awkward for him, Danny hums out a laugh, shakes his head and says, "Look at you. Gemma Arterton. Getting muggle public transport."

The lift doors open with a ping in front of them.

"I'd hardly call an airplane public transport," she replies. "And it's all part of the theme, isn't it? A muggle themed wedding."

"And your old job," he tacks on.

Her smile is more of a smirk, a quick flash of white teeth between her lips before she dips her head and gets into the passenger side of the car. (Alright, so Danny probably shouldn't have said anything about Gemma getting a plane since he now drives a car but still.) "I'll take that as 'congratulations'," she replies, punctuating her sentence with the click of her belt in the lock.

The engine starts up and Danny goes, "You finally made it, huh?"

This time, Gemma smile is sadder. But Danny misses it, trying to take the ramp down towards the exit while rummaging for the parking ticket in the back pocket of his jeans. They're halfway through the city before the traffic kicks in and they end up coming to a standstill, the road looking like a car park with the amount of cars stopped on it. Gemma sits there, wondering if she can open the window and drumming her fingers on her leather handbag, when Danny asks, "So. Who are you bringing to it then?"

She has to take a moment to catch up. But eventually comes out with, "Oh. No one." Out of politeness, she returns, "You?"

"Sophie."

Gemma smiles. She remembers Sophie. Sort of. She was blonde back in Hogwarts, one of RJ's Slytherin friends; they went to the Yule Ball together in Beauxbatons. (Merlin, what a mess that had ended up being.) Last time Gemma saw her, Sophie had dyed red hair and was definitely not dating Danny − then again, Gemma _has_ been in out of the country for the last five years, so she asks, "How is she?"

"She's good, yeah," Danny replies, but cuts himself with a blast of the car horn.

Thankfully, the pair eventually make it out of the traffic alive, only 25 minutes late to lunch with Zayn and Harry. Harry all but throws himself at Gemma when he sees her.

He sniffles while saying, "It's so good to see you."

With a pat on his back, Gemma replies, "Please don't start crying." And she catches the roll of Zayn's eyes and responds with a smile of her own.

 

*

 

The bell above the shop door goes but Nick is already out there, so Greg hangs back in the office, flipping through a manual for a lava lamp. He almost topples off the chair when he hears Nick squeal, stumbling over his legs as he dashes out just in time to hear Nick go, "Fucking Arterton! How long have you been back?" and yank her in for a hug. Silently, he slips back into the office and closes the door behind him, leaning back on it. He's not ready for a reunion quite yet.

 

*

 

The thing is. And it's kind of a big thing. Greg was the one to break up with Gemma. But he didn't mean it to be forever.

It went a little something like this:

They go out for drinks, Gemma's treat as she insists, "We never go out anymore. Not together, anyway."

Greg tries not to let the words sting too much. Because Gemma is Gemma, in all her colours and forms. It's just a pity that her current form spends so much time at the Ministry, settling into the world of politics − "You'll eat them alive," he had told her on the first day, a soft kiss on her lips and her fingers wrapped around his tie as they stood at the main door. "Knock 'em dead." − going into work before Greg is up and coming home long after he has gone to bed.

They go to a pub close to the flat, a homey sort of place with too much wood panelling to be safe but Gemma had reassured him the first time they were there that everything was up to standard. They take their regular booth in the corner and after two drinks each and before Gemma can go and annoy the rest of the place with her terrible music taste on the jukebox, Greg says, "I- can we talk for a minute?"

Gemma laughs.

"We are talking. We have been talking."

"I know," he agrees, covering his eyes with one hand and scratching at his eyebrow. Maybe if he doesn't have to look at her this will be easier; if he doesn't have to watch the smile fall away from Gemma's face, perhaps Greg can make it through this with most of his feelings intact. "But. I kinda want to say something."

Gemma stops tracing circles on the table with the bottom of her wine glass and replies, "Alright."

"I've been thinking. Uh. About. Uh. Us." One more 'uh' and Greg is going to slap himself. "And. You know- you working at the Ministry. And how I never see you anymore."

Her hand comes down on the table with a loud thud when she lets go of the stem of the glass but Gemma stays quiet.

"I know, I know, I know," he babbles out quickly, "I know it's not your fault. It's an important job and you're slowly working your way through it, settling in. Helping the Minister, doing your job." He could not be fucking this up more. Greg can't decide if he wants to laugh, cry, or run away. Perhaps a combination of all three would be the best − just laugh and cry as he flees the place, never stopping so he never has to deal with this conversation ever again. "And it's a great job, I'm really proud of you. I'm just not sure where our relationship fits into it. Now that you're never home when I'm awake."

Finally looking at Gemma, his breath catches. She looks more confused than angry but even more upset than Greg had prepared for.

The jukebox starts playing _We Didn't Start The Fire_ by Billy Joel.

Greg contemplates lying on the ground. This is a disaster.

"So-" Gemma begins, but her voice is thick around something in her throat and it breaks. She doesn't attempt to speak again.

"Maybe it's best if we took a step back, assessed the situation. Spend some time apart."

"Are you breaking up with me?"

Greg croaks out a noise.

"Are you serious?" and she laughs but Greg sees the tears in the corner of her eyes. "We talked about- we talked about this. You knew it would be like this."

"It's been a year, Gem."

She scoffs, sliding from upset into angry easily. Greg can't say he blames her.

Gemma doesn't stay much longer than that. Greg stays until Billy's finished and the next song comes on. He waits to see what the next song after that one will be and gets up out of the chair when it doesn't impress him. He can't say he's surprised Gemma isn't there when he gets in. It takes him a solid hour of tossing and turning over, punching the pillow into a blob under his head to get comfortable enough to fall asleep but even then, it's in stops and starts, an hour here and fifteen minutes there until his alarm goes off.

(Luckily when he wakes up he doesn't instinctively reach out for Gemma lying beside him. He has gotten used to that.)

She moves out one day while he's out at work.

There's a post it stuck to the front door when he gets home. Garishly pink with Gemma's neat handwriting across it.

_I left the key by the fridge._

No 'goodbye', no 'see you around'. No forwarding address to send her mail to. Greg tears it down and shoulders his way in through the door. He waits two weeks to hear from her again but nothing comes. Then Nick tells him his dad's divorcing Gemma's mum and that Gemma's moving to Scotland with some ministry job, all in one breath.

Greg nods before making his escape from the conversation with a quick mumble of, "I've an electric train to fix."

 

*

 

Now, she's standing in the middle of the shop and Greg does his best not to eavesdrop on the conversation.

It all goes out the window when Nick starts saying he's going to take her for lunch, won't take no for an answer, and calls out, "Greg. Come out and say 'hi' to Gemma. And come to lunch. You've been cooped up in there all day. I'm buying."

Greg groans but finds himself reaching for the door handle. He supposes he should be polite. His mother did raise him as such.

To her credit, Gemma smiles at him when he steps out the way she was smiling at Nick five minutes ago. It easy enough to let his face follow suit − like some Pavlovian muscle memory he hasn't managed to shake in six year, his face smiling just because Gemma's is − but Greg still feels awkward. He hopes it doesn't show too badly around his shoulders.

 

*

 

It's a week before the wedding when Harry bursts into tears for the eightieth time. All Zayn does is wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling his fiancé in for a hug, while Gemma stands there in between buckets of roses and irises, looking mildly petrified.

"Is he-" she begins but Zayn shakes his head.

"He's fine."

Somewhere in the confines of Zayn's sweater, Harry mumbles out, "I'm really happy." Emerging out, red faced and a little snotty, he tells her, "I'm just so happy you're here."

A smile slowly takes over Gemma's face, honest and wide. "Where else would I be, you goon?" And lightly she tips at his elbow with her fingers. Harry pulls away from Zayn with a soft 'thank you' and falls in against Gemma, who takes it as best she can, despite the force of his shoulder knocking into her chest and causing her to expel all the air in her lungs in a wounded noise.

No one mentions the fact none of them went to Gemma's wedding.

Pragmatically, Zayn sniffs once and says, "So, what about the flowers, Arterton? Button or bouquet?"

 

*

 

According to the movies − at least, the three romantic comedies Gemma has sat through with Harry and his sister − when the heroine gets her heartbroken, she will go on and meet some wonderful, beautiful stranger who will take her on a whirlwind adventure and there'll probably be a kiss in the rain somewhere in the middle of it. But after Gemma and Greg broke up it didn't go like that for her.

Gemma remembers it like this:

This week she's in Paris. Her French is fine but reading the paper makes her head hurt if she does it for too long; same with listening to the news on the television before she goes to bed. She misses English-published newspapers. 

(She hasn't been back to London in over a year. It probably means less than others think.)

At some dinner she gets sat beside some French dignitary who keeps trying to put his arm around her chair back. His wedding ring is cold against the bare skin of her shoulder and after the fourth time it makes her flinch, she excuses herself from the table and heads for the bar.

She recognises him from his picture in the papers.

"Malfoy," she intones, elbow up on the bar and the barman's attention on her in seconds.

Draco Malfoy stirs his old fashioned with a thin red straw.

Gemma doesn't ask why he's there.

There's a packet of cigarettes by his arm on the bar top, and Gemma eyes them. They smoke the same brand, a silly coincidence but she accepts it for what it's worth; her own packet sits in her coat pocket which sits still draped around the back of her chair. While the barman mixes her martini, she asks, "May I?" She has always preferred asking for cigarettes from other people, finds it to be a great conversation opener.

Draco quietly offers her one with a smile. There's still an indentation on his finger from the wedding ring he stopped wearing a few months ago. Gemma almost feels herself move to apologise. Instead she goes outside alone to smoke, shivering her way through it while her martini waits for her on the top of the balcony wall.

It takes another four days of bumping into one another at events and dinners − a lunch here and a gala there where Gemma is the French muggle relations minister in all but name and Draco is the charming older gent who offers her a light for her cigarette and doesn't try and flirt with her − before they end up fucking but-

That was always how it was going to go.

Eight months later, they're in Cambodia and he proposes. Gemma can't say she didn't see it coming but. Like everything else in their relationship. There's no spark or butterflies in her stomach; no silly rush of romance. It is what it is and Gemma says yes because she was always going to.

When she calls Nick − one of the perks of being muggle foreign relations minister is a ministry paid for mobile phone − and tells him about it, he manages to sound both sorry and happy for her at the same time.

 

*

 

"But how are you?"

Gemma sighs, lighting up a cigarette and before replying, "The divorce was nearly a year ago. I'm fine, I'm fine," with a haze of smoke slowly drifting out of her mouth. "Draco and I are fine. Just. Not married now."

Nick doesn't looks satisfied but Gemma shrugs back at him. She can't give him something she doesn't have.

He asks, "Anyone else?"

"Anyone else what?"

"In your life. Anyone. . . Nice. Taking you for dinner? Buying you flowers? Waking up in your bed with the sheets pulled down to his waist?"

Shaking her head, Gemma laughs out loudly. "No. No, no one like that."

"No Russian ice skating sharpshooter with a broken heart left back in Moscow?" Gemma just gives him a look and refrains from correcting him that she was in St Petersburg for the past three months. He sniffs, feigning utter disappointment. "Pity."

 

*

 

Greg manages to avoid Gemma rather well, if he does say so himself. Even with Nick − stupidly charming and too persuasive Nick − trying to get Greg to come for dinner, lunch, afternoon tea and everything in between, Greg always manages to find an excuse, fleeing to his workshop before Gemma arrives.

Sure.

It's childish and stupid of him to not want to see her but- he doesn't have a clue what to say to her.

"Hi, how are you since we broke up, you married and divorced Draco Malfoy and I opened a shop with your ex-stepbrother? I hear you're becoming Minister of Magic soon − how's that working out for you?"

It all sounds rather stupid and trite in his head and as far as Greg can see the best solution is avoiding the whole situation entirely. Anyway, he has the model plane to build for Harry, to say thank you. "Thank you for inviting me to your wedding," he says, Harry's fingers wrapped around the edge of the sheet as he stares at the airplane on its stand, sitting centre of the table.

There's a smudge of black paint across Greg's nose that hasn't washed off properly from the late night touch ups he was doing eight hours ago. But Harry is too nice to say anything. Or too stunned.

"Is that a-"

"Consolidated B-24 Liberator, British model." He watches Harry blink three times before continuing. "You said your granddad flew one during the war. I couldn't remember the number − I'm not sure if you told me, actually − but I painted it up to match the style of the 1940s. It's even got 'Styles' on the side in cursive becaus-"

Harry bursts into tears.

Greg stares at his hands, at the white and grey smudges and splatters across his fingers as he contemplates moving in to hug him. Harry beats him to it, mumbling out a sob-soaked, "Thank you, it's wonderful," into Greg's sweater.

Greg's not really sure if he should go to the wedding at all at this rate. First Gemma and now he's made Harry cry.

_Fuck._

 

*

 

Zayn is the one to ask, "Whose stag party are you going to tonight? After dinner?"

Gemma raises her eyebrow at him, staring at him over the lip of her mug of tea. It's only the two of them in house − "You can stay with us, if you like. Until you get settled," Harry had offered when she had first arrived home. "It'll be nicer than staying in a hotel by yourself." And even though he had been correct, Gemma still declined politely − even the cat has gone off wandering, leaving them alone to discuss everything _but_ the wedding but somehow they have deviated back to it.

"Why?" she returns.

Zayn's sigh is a bit exasperated.

"Because you're friends with both of us. So, I'm giving you the choice."

"Who is having the stripper?"

"Who says we both aren't having strippers?"

Gemma swallows down her mouthful of tea and sighs back at him. (Although ten years older now, her face is the same as it was in Hogwarts and Zayn feels himself smiling at the sight of her mouth like that.) "Who's having the stripper?" she repeats.

"Harry."

"Then I'm going to yours."

When they tell Harry, his eyes get wet and he pats Gemma on the arm with a tender, "Of course you are, of course," like he knows something about Zayn and Gemma's friendship that no one else does and when he goes off to do whatever it is Harry does when he cries, Zayn shoots Gemma a confused frown.

"Is he alright?"

Zayn makes a noise. "I'm not really sure."

After convincing Gemma she really _doesn't_ need to go back to the hotel and change and once Harry has stopped crying, Zayn loops one arm with hers and his other with Harry's, announcing, "And we're off." It's quite a good way to exit a room but once they reach the front door, Zayn realises there is no way all three of them are going to fit. Gemma bows out gracefully with a soft 'you aren't going to see each other for 24 hours after this, go on'. And Harry beams.

The others − Nick, RJ, Louis, Danny, Ant, Sophie, Greg and a few others Gemma remembers vaguely from Hogwarts but can no longer put a name to − arrive at the restaurant in one clump. Harry makes sure to sit Nick next to Gemma, clucking around them like a mother hen protecting her babies. It would be sweet if they weren't both in their late-twenties but no one says anything in case Harry starts crying again. Zayn takes a seat the opposite end of the table from his fiancé, to which Ant announces loudly, "So they can make kissyfaces and flutter their eyelashes at one another."

"Well," Nick chimes in, RJ's nose buried in the wine menu and refusing to let anyone else have a look, "Zayn _does_ have wonderful eyelashes."

If it was anyone other than Zayn they would have flushed but instead Zayn turns to Nick with a coy smile.

From the other end of the table, Harry complains, "Hey, stop that. You wouldn't like it if I flirted with Louis, would you?"

"Be my guest."

Louis just sits there, wondering how he got dragged into this.

Between dessert and coffee, Gemma and Nick excuse themselves from the table for a smoke. With a grin on his face, RJ puts the question to the table, "Wonder what those two are planning," and Nick goes to reply but Gemma's hand settles on the curve of his back, shoving him along.

He accepts her lighter with a small smile, inhaling the first drag deep. Around his exhale, he tells her, "Don't let me fuck the stripper, ok?"  
Gemma is finished pocketing the lighter, zipping up her handbag once more as she replies, "Uh. I won't?" She sounds a little unsure but Nick knows that's as good as a promise from her. "Wouldn't Louis and RJ have something to say about it anyway?"

"Probably. Yeah."

She shoots him a lopsided smirk with a dimple in her cheek. "Don't worry, I won't let you." Then, she adds, "Don't let me fuck him either."

Nick's laugh is loud and abrupt, surprising a few of the patrons waiting in line to get in. Even the doorman looks over, frowning over the edge of his clipboard but Nick knows his money is as good as anyone else's; they aren't going to get kicked out of the restaurant just because he laughed. "Yeah," he smiles. Ash drops from the tip of his cigarette. "The newly appointed Minister of Magic can't be seen cavorting with a sex worker before she's even officially taken office."

Gemma blinks.

"Oh, yeah."

Nick laughs again.

She explains, "I didn't even think of that. I was more worried about getting herpes."

 

*

 

Harry cries as they go their separate ways for the evening, Danny taking a cigarette from Gemma while Louis pulls Harry along with him. 

 

*

 

"Don't leave again," Zayn says.

He's soft and clingy from the alcohol, half-singing along with the song while pulling Gemma into a slow dance. It doesn't work with the beat but she allows it. He repeats, "You're not allowed leave, you can't," before tapering off, standing up straighter to gently murmur the lyrics into his friend's ear. Over the corner Danny and Ant watch, ordering a second round of beers while RJ flirts shamelessly with the barman, a redhead with glasses who isn't his type but RJ's default conversation setting is to flirt; Zayn has to stop singing to stick his tongue out at the others, spinning Gemma away and making her laugh into the line of his cheek, picking his song up again once he is no longer able to see the other three. Like his singing is only for Gemma, a secret trapped between the two of them amid the other people.

Gemma bumps her hip off a table, quickly apologising to the people sitting around it when a few drinks topple. She rushes out, "Sorry, sorry," going for a third but never making it as Zayn speeds her away, their rhythm moving to match the music's better.

"I'm not going anywhere," she replies.

Zayn smiles at her fondly, like he has forgotten the previous thirty seconds, tells her, "I know," and goes to dip her. Her heel catches on the toe of his shoe, the pair of them wobbling but Zayn saves it, beaming. His smile is infectious and Gemma laughs again.

"I know you aren't." 

(It feels so stupidly wonderful to be home again and, as Zayn's hand dips lower on her back and the song around them changes, a stranger's elbow clattering into Zayn's side, it's easy enough to forget why she left in the first place.)

"I just had to make sure you knew that."

 

*

 

It takes her a good minute to realise the phone ringing is hers. In fact, she misses the first call completely but catches it in time to answer the second, Nick's name in large white letters across the screen. (Muggle technology really isn't that pretty but a mobile phone was a prerequisite for her last job with the Ministry and despite how ugly and stupid the contraptions are, old habits die hard.)

"Hello?" she answers.

It's not Nick's voice that replies to her but Gemma surprises herself by not dropping the phone. "Nick told me to call you if anything went wrong and right now Harry's crying and Nick seems to be genuinely flirting with the stripper so- hi. It's Greg," he tells her.

Gemma says the only thing she can say in this situation and tells him, "I'll be there in five minutes."

With Zayn four shots into a 12 shot platter, it's Danny Gemma has to tell she's leaving. But with the crowd gathered around their table and the volume of the music, the best she can do is awkwardly motion at the door and hope he is still sober enough to understand her charades. He gives her a thumbs up − and a crooked smile − which Gemma counts as something before she heads for the cloakroom to collect her coat.

Six inch heels don't make it easy to walk along cobblestones but the club Harry chose for his stag party is _literally_ around the corner from the one Zayn chose − apparently they initially chose the same one, and although Zayn did say Harry could have it, Harry insisted his fiancé took it and found himself a similar place nearby − and Gemma is not going to pay £5 to go _around a corner_. 

She figures she has found the right place when she spies Louis throwing up bright green into a drain, RJ rubbing his back and assuring him, "It's fine, go on. Get it all up."

Gemma gives him a wave as she passes.

It costs her £10 to get in, annoying but necessary.

Once inside, she orders another beer and immediately deems it a bad idea. But, she shares a cheers with the group of strangers beside her before dipping into the crowd to find her friends. Greg said Harry was crying, something that should be fairly easy to locate but the music drowns out mostly everything else.

Bypassing an arguing couple, Gemma places her partially empty bottle on a table and forgets to pick it back up. But when she finally finds Nick − and Harry and Greg and a frowning Louis − he hands her a shot and tells her, "Have that." 

She does.

Nick grins at her with a bizarre mixture of pride and 'let's go commit a felony' on his face. Gemma doesn't have a watch but judging by the varying stages of drunk her friends seem to be in, she deems it a perfectly good time to go home. Making eye contact with Greg, he seems to sigh in relief at the sight of her. She just about manages to give him a nod.

"Here," Louis insists, passing half of Harry's weight over to her. "Have this."

"I was-" she begins, motioning towards Nick but Harry starts to slide and she has to stop mid-arm movement to grab at Harry, who lets out a pathetic snotty sobbing noise. He doesn't fall and Gemma forgets what she was going to say. She goes with, "Where's the stripper?"

Louis sniffs at her agitatedly.

He informs her, "He had to go. His shift was over."

Gemma clucks her tongue off her back teeth but lets it go. (There's a small part of her brain that's telling her to check the stripper still had all of his extremities when he left but she doesn't.) Harry starts to slide down again, knees buckling, the left one almost touching off the ground as he sadly mumbles something about mistakes and Zayn. Gemma gives him a 'yes, yeah, mmm' and picks him back up, readjusting his weight; he is more on top of her than Louis now but Louis is trying to drag a slowly bristling Nick along with him so-

"I want to do more shots," Nick states, words slurred together and his eyes crossed with the amount of effort he is putting into looking his boyfriend in the face.

"No, you don't," Greg soothes, pushing at Nick from behind with a well placed hand between his friend's shoulders. Louis looks on the verge of snapping. Greg gives Nick another shove, making him stumble, and Louis does not help steady him. "C'mon," he urges, all but steering Nick towards the front door. The bouncers give them a wave as they pass, Gemma's sleeve dropping as she returns it, revealing the blue ink stamp of the _other club_ on her wrist and the two men eye her for a second longer than necessary as she drags Harry towards the taxi rank.

He's muttering something about, "I just worry," when she gets him upright, fixing his coat around his shoulders.

"I know, I know," she replies.

She does up his buttons for him.

"He's with them," Greg explains after Gemma slaps Nick's hand away, Louis already sitting in the back of a taxi, a frown set heavily onto his features. Gemma blinks too many times, giving him a brief 'oh yeah' and lets Harry go.

She sticks her head into the backseat and asks, "He'll be ok, won't he?"

"Course, yeah," Nick chimes, forced into the front by his now properly annoyed boyfriend. "Don't worry."

Harry pets her face, says, "Beautiful," before dropping his hand.

Gemma pokes the tip of his nose with her finger, smiling, before slipping back out of the car and straightening her coat at. Greg waves as they drive off, then offers, "Walk you home?"

Gemma nods. Slowly, they fall into step. She shrugs her hands into her pockets, mostly to keep them warm but also partially to keep herself from reaching out and holding Greg's hand. She's a little more drunk than she would ever like to be in this situation − drunk and loose, fondly reminded of times in Hogwarts when Greg would ask her the same thing, "Walk you home?" and then trek the whole way up to the Ravenclaw dorms before heading back to his own bed in the Hufflepuff ones.

God.

It feels like a lifetime ago. But Gemma keeps her hands in her pockets, just to be safe.

 

*

 

Nick has three voicemails when he wakes up, face down on the couch and connected to the cushion beneath him with a tacky strand of drool. He swats it away and finds his phone in his coat pocket; someone slung it over him last night like a blanket. (His money would be on Harry since Louis was mad at him.)

The first is from a muggle associate, a friend of Louis' named Stan who sounds like he's going through a tunnel, mostly indistinguishable noise and crackled static until he says, "Nick," all of a sudden, then a swift, "Call me."

Another is from Greg. He sounds tired and behind his voice there's the tell tale patter of his shoes on the linoleum of his kitchen. Like Stan, he begins with, "Nick," but his message goes on for longer. "I- fuck. I just. Did a thing, that I probably shouldn't have done. Why did I offer to walk her home? Gemma. That's who I'm talking about. You probably know that but still. I- shit. I need to go to bed."

He doesn't ask Nick to call him back.

And the last one is from Gemma. Three for three it begins with, "Nick."

She doesn't go any further.

 

*

 

Eight hours before Nick checks his voicemail, this happens:

The silence is easy enough. London on a Friday night is fairly busy, enough distracting noises and sights around them to keep the awkwardness level to a minimum but as they get closer to Gemma's hotel, Greg feels the itching need to say something.

"So," he starts with.

It gets her attention and he fails to find what to say next. She asks, "Yes?"

"How's Draco?"

Greg would like to believe he's a good person. Or, at least, that everyone knows he _tries_ to be a good person but sometimes he fails at it. Right now, however, he's sort of a terrible person. Because he knows Gemma is more drunk than he is. Possibly too drunk to be having this conversation. But- once the question is out there and Gemma's mouth fall open as she inhales a breath, thinking about her answer, Greg doesn't feel the usual panicked rush he knows should accompany a hasty, "No, it's fine. I'm sorry, ignore me, I'm being stupid."

(Perhaps he is more drunk than he thinks he is but whatever level of drunk he is at Gemma is definitely more drunk.)

"He's-" and she stops, expelling out the rest of her air before trying again. "Trying to buy a quidditch team." She frowns at the ground, more at herself than Greg, as she says, "I should have asked RJ about it, now that I think of it − he's a quidditch player, right?" still talking to the ground and not Greg. Back in Greg's direction, she tells him, "He was always trying to buy quidditch teams when we were together. Trying to buy his second wife things. Not that I wanted a quidditch team but. Still."

She sighs and says, "Pathetic, really."

Greg thinks she's saying it more about herself than about her ex-husband.

"I did love him."

Greg, yeah, _no._ He doesn't want to hear about this.

No.

"But, you know?"

He nods, unsure of what else to do.

In front of them, the flags of Claridge's flutter loudly in the November wind. The lights are on in the reception, throwing out odd shadows onto the pavement around the ornamental hedging of the windows. They stop at the same time, both realising where they are.

Gemma blinks one eye, then the next. Definitely too drunk to be having this conversation. But now that they've started it, she doesn't seem too ready to let go of it. With her left hand fiddling with the button on her cuff, she says to Greg, "Sometimes two lonely people trying not to be lonely together can be the loneliest thing in the world."

Greg swallows something solid down in his throat, the noise around it wet and shockingly loud against the night. 

Gemma sighs.

"You should-" she begins. "go. Thanks for walking me home."

He offers her a lopsided smile and a quick 'yeah'.

Behind her, the automatic doors open with a posh, metallic swish. Out of the corner of his eye Greg catches the girl standing at the concierge's desk look up from the computer monitor in front of her. He watches her instead of looking at Gemma while he considers what to say next. He goes with, "I haven't had a chance to say it yet, since I keep missing you-"

"Missing me, avoiding me. Same thing," Gemma smiles. Greg closes his eyes for a moment so he doesn't have to look at her. He should have known she'd know; she was always one step ahead of everyone else, even when she shouldn't have been. "Go on," she urges. "You were saying?"

"Yeah."

"Yes?"

"Congratulations on the new job. Minister of Magic − that's quite a big deal, I hear."

He tries to play it off as nothing but Gemma beats him to it, shrugging her shoulders and tossing back, "Yeah, well. I was once queen bee of Hogwarts. Minister of Magic just seemed like the next logical step. And, who knows? Maybe in twenty years when I'm done with that I'll move onto the next thing − taking over the world, maybe?"

She pauses. Her eyes widen as she realises what she has said.

"But not in a terrifying Dark Lord way."

Greg laughs.

"No," he agrees. "You'd be great." (And means it. Out of everyone in the world he has ever met, if there was one person who could take over the world and still make people love them, Greg's money would be on Gemma. Because, even on that first day, when Gemma walked over to the Hufflepuff table holding his essay, Greg knew it was impossible not to be a little bit in love with Gemma Arterton.)

She smiles and he realises- _he's not sure who stepped closer to who_ but suddenly Gemma is right in front of him, just a hand's distance away, and all Greg wants to do is. Reach across that space and pull her in.

He doesn't.

And maybe that's why she says it.

"Would you like to come up?" she asks quietly, head dipped down, making it easier for herself by not looking him in the eye. She doesn't blush − Gemma never did − but there's something around her ears, something in the way that her hair blows in the wind where it's come untucked from the clips that tells Greg she is as nervous about him, as hesitant and awkward feeling as he is. He reaches for her, hand coming in and smoothing out the wrinkle in the shoulder of her coat where it has bunched up next to the strap of her bag and Gemma says, "If you like."

For the longest time he doesn't answer. But he doesn't pull away from her either. She keeps looking down, like she doesn't want to see his face.

Greg doesn't think he could handle seeing hers right now; he's not sure how he would take it if he saw the look on her face, that open sort of hopefulness where she's put everything in his hands. Even the idea of it breaks him a little. Makes him stutter out a breath with a vowel sound.

"I should probably go," he says, but makes no move to walk away.

Ten seconds pass. Then another.

Gemma lifts her head, nodding out, "Yeah, probably," and that's enough for Greg to step away.

 

*

 

This isn't the time or the place and really, Gemma has nothing to say on the matter.

She tells Nick, after he finds her while wearing an overly worried look on his face, "It was nothing. My drunk brain kicked in and I asked if Greg wanted to come up to my hotel room. Nothing at all." Nick's face does a complete shift, breaking into a smile that crinkles the skin around his eyes.

He has never looked more punchable but standing in a purple dress with baby's breath artfully tangled in her hair, Gemma decided now isn't the best place to punch her friend in the face.

"I knew it," he crows.

Ok, maybe now _is_ a good time to punch him.

It's only for the bouquet in her hands that Gemma doesn't.

 

*

 

The lapel of Louis' jacket is soaked, a few spots of damp spread along the pocket on his chest too. To the others − basically everyone minus Zayn and Danny, who are waiting over the other side of the church for Harry because it is bad luck for the couple to see one another before the ceremony and if there's one thing a bunch of wizards and witches are it is dreadfully superstitious − he says, "He's having a meltdown."

While RJ sighs and rolls his eyes, Nick says, "Maybe we should get Zayn."

Everyone else shouts out, "No!"

And the idea is vetoed.

"How bad is it?" Gemma asks. "If it's just tears, tea should sort it out. But, if it's an actual meltdown, maybe someone should go in there."

With a laugh, Louis replies, "Not me."

No one else really seems to want to take up the task and with a huff, Gemma says, "Fine, I'll go. Someone go tell Zayn, anyway. And the priest. And maybe find Harry's mum."

Inside the room Harry wails.

Nick claps a hand on Gemma's back and says, "Good luck."

 

*

 

Greg knows he shouldn't listen but everyone else ran off to find someone else and inform them 'Harry's sobbing so there might be a slight delay', leaving him standing uselessly outside the door. And Greg has always felt ridiculous when he has nothing to do. So-

 

*

 

Harry accepts the cup of tea Gemma hands him silently, letting their fingers brush on the rim of the saucer as thank you but nothing else. He looks pale and carefully Gemma brushes his hair away from his forehead − instinctively Harry leans into the touch, seeking comfort where it's offered. Against the back of his chair his shoulders tense up, like he's fighting the urge to shake and shiver. Gemma hums thoughtfully, stroking her fingers through his hair one last time before moving on.

"It's ok to be scared," she says, annunciating every syllable carefully. "I was."

Harry blinks at his tea, unsure where to look. No one has ever mentioned Gemma's wedding before; even Nick, who received an invite but declined, doesn't talk about it. The awkward white elephant in the room. Harry swallows, the lump in his throat moving slowly against the muscle.

He keeps his hand on the saucer.

Gemma repeats, "I was. And I wasn't even marrying him for the right reasons." Taking the seat opposite him, she nudges at Harry's shin with the toe of her shoe − it prompts him to look at her, her smile suggesting that was the exact result she was hoping for. But the smile doesn't fit her next sentence though it stays on her face, "I was so scared I was going to become my mother. And I knew. I fucking knew I was marrying a man for all the wrong reasons. And I went through with it any way."

Harry frowns.

"Is this supposed to be making me feel better?"

"Yes."

He wrinkles his nose at her, but quickly drops it, settling for a sigh and moving his eyes back to his shoes. There's a scuff on his left shoe, a white streak along the shiny black leather; rubbing at it with the heel of his other shoe only makes it worse. Harry rolls his eyes at himself, suddenly aware Gemma is sitting across from him still − he gives her this:

"What if I'm making a mistake?"

Her laugh is a shock of noise, loud and brilliant and rumbling out from her chest. Harry blinks at her, taken aback, almost afraid of it but when she stops, he doesn't like the silence. "You aren't," she states.

"You don't know that." He repeats, "You don't know that. You can't sit there and tell me that it's going to be ok. Cos- what if this is all a mistake? What if we end up one of those couples, part of the 40%-"

"42%," she amends.

Harry shoots her a glare. "Alright, 42%," he carefully sounds out, "who end in divorce? What if we get married and it is all ruined?"

Softly, Gemma sighs. She sighs and her shoulders sag down, her upper frame curling in on itself. "I know it won't- because. Number one, you, Harry Styles, are marrying Zayn Malik. And _two_. Neither of you are me." Harry watches her face move, almost forming a frown, three little lines in her forehead that never develop into anything solid but flicker there while he takes her in. She seems to laugh and sigh all at once, like a soft sob, and if it wasn't for the tea cup in his hands Harry would reach for her. But her shoulders move, straightening, and Gemma insists, "If you ever tell Zayn I told you this, it'll be the last thing you ever say to anyone but-"

Harry believes her. He nods. He has no doubt Gemma, queen bee of Hogwarts and future Minister of Magic, could have him removed from existence without blinking an eyelid.

"When you two had that little break up thing. In the middle." He listens to her carefully. "Zayn turned up on my doorstep. Nick must've told him where I was cos- I hadn't seen him in two years but there he was. Looking miserable and asking if he could come in, repeating that he'd fucked everything up with you."

By the time she stops, Harry is frowning. 

He had no idea.

"He only stayed for a couple of days but every day, he would ask me how I did it. How had I gotten over Greg and how I'd moved on with my life." She stops to laugh but the sound isn't bright or cheery. "And I told him not to do anything the way I'd done it. Cos I had done it wrong. I'm not quite sure how I got it through to him, or to myself, but the next thing, Zayn was gone and I was divorcing my husband. Which is probably the smartest thing I've ever done. Sadly."

Harry gives her a smile.

It takes a moment for her mouth to copy his but when it does, Harry's smile spreads wider. Gemma tells him, "The Zayn who turned up on my doorstep that day is the same Zayn who came back to you, proposed and is waiting at the altar right now − the exact same Zayn who walked into the Great Lake for you, just because you wanted to go mermaid hunting, even though he couldn't swim. And I can't make you marry him. But I think you should. Because, if you don't. If you walk away, then you're just doing the same thing I did. And I'm dumb."

He nudges their knees together, humming around a laugh. If there's one thing people cannot accuse Gemma of being, it is dumb. But when she says it herself, Harry supposes it has to be true. At least just a little.

"I guess you're right," he chuckles. "You are kinda dumb."

Gemma raises her eyebrow. "I made your tea."

"Mmm," and Harry wrinkles his nose. "It's not that great."

 

*

 

After his shoulder punts into the side of her head, Harry has to spend a minute fixing the flowers he knocked out of arrangement, untangling a dark strand from the baby's breath before patting Gemma's cheek and pulling her back in. Their noses butt together, their breath shared between them. Harry's not sure which one of them laughs into the moment first, but he thinks his sound is a copy of Gemma's, and he kisses the tip of her nose quickly then lets her go.

"C'mon," she says, offering him a hand. "Let's go get you married."

The door opens. And in tumbles Greg and Nick, a pile of limbs and odd noises as they hit the ground. Harry gives Gemma a brief, "Uh." And with a slanted smile of her own back at him, she sidesteps over the other two and leads him down the hall.

 

*

 

A single tear drops from Zayn's eyelashes down to his cheek as Harry slips the ring onto his finger. He doesn't let go of Harry's hand afterwards, not even as the vicar pronounces them married, and out of the corner of his eye Harry spots Gemma passing Nick a tissue. He counts each and every tear from them all as a personal victory.

 

*

 

There are three things that _could_ be the reason Greg is walking towards Gemma. He's not sure which one he really wants it to be, since they're all rather terrifying.

The first is Nick. Who found Greg listening in at the door before the ceremony. He hadn't said anything, just bent over beside his friend and pressed his ear against the wood, being careful to not bump into it too loudly. The look he had shot Greg, right before the door opened and the pair of them toppled in together, had hit Greg somewhere around the throat, taking all the air out of his lungs; this sort of frown Greg immediately understood.

Then, there is Harry.

Harry, who all but cornered Greg at his table, trapping him in place as the waiter refilled Greg's wine glass.

"Dance," he had said. "It's a wedding."

Flummoxed, Greg had attempted to reply but couldn't get beyond a few odd vowel sounds, opening and closing his mouth in a terrible dying fish impression. Harry just smiled at him and told him, "I'm sure there's someone you can ask."

And finally, and probably most importantly, there's Gemma. Gemma and everything that has happened between them. 

Ever.

He walks up to her as she's talking animatedly to Alexa. Not wishing to disturb them, Greg waits for a lull in the conversation but Alexa spots him first and nods towards him, Gemma suddenly turning around. She has flowers in her hair and a smile on her face that Greg doesn't really think is meant for him but he accepts it. "Hi," he breathes out.

"Hi."

Alexa slips away as if she was never there.

He asks, "Would you like to dance?"

Gemma hesitates for a second, her mouth opening and releasing an 'I-' but Greg catches her, refusing to let go of the smile she gave him, and says, "I never got to at the Yule Ball, you see. And I should have. I should have. And. I'm not going to let you go."

Instantly, he closes his eyes, realising his mistake. He groans as Gemma laughs and even with his eyes closed, he knows she has stepped in closer, so he whispers out his next line. "What I meant to say was I'm not going to let _it_ go. It. But-" He looks down at her face. "I think I'm going to stick with what I said."

"I'm not going anywhere," she replies.

 

*

 

Harry tears up when he sees them together, reaching for his husband's hand and squeezing it as Greg makes Gemma laugh, her head thrown back and the skin around her eyes crinkled as Greg smiles, turning them slowly around the floor. Zayn hums, sounds like a huff, sounds like a 'not again, Styles' but Harry tells him, "Fuck off. I'm happy."


End file.
